Envy's Diary
by Icefrosty
Summary: A parody of Bridget Jones's Diary by Helen Fielding. Envy decides to record his daily struggles with challenging New Years resolutions, angst, sibling parties, alcoholism, and general insanity. And it's not looking good...
1. New Years Resolutions

WILL NOT:

-Give way to fits of rage and subsequent violence, but instead maintain inner dignity and poise as a respectable member of the Homunculi.

-Drink more than average intake of alcohol (21 units per week). Excess makes one look desperate and self-destructive.

-Contemplate on inner turmoil, as is prone to above fits of rage as a result, and doing so would destroy self-imposed dignity and poise.

-Pig out like can actually lose weight, since can't. Instead, eat sensibly, so others will praise self-management.

-Go out of way to make people think one desperately in need of said praise, but instead maintain air of assertiveness without arrogance to dissuade such thoughts.

-Cause random bouts of destruction unless instructed or if genuinely needed.

-Throw natural sexiness in others' faces, as makes one look needy and insecure. Instead, imagine others' thoughts while shamelessly bragging.

-Complain, as makes one look childish and become the butt of mockery.

-Give a shit about own inner turmoil. Rationalize own feelings with sensibility and calm.

-Fuck up missions.

-Make oneself look weak by fucking up missions.

-Take the form of ugly moustachioed and/or old military men. Instead take form of cute-yet-slightly-sinister young men.

-Go crazy at every little comment towards oneself. Remember: _dignity and poise_is key to awesomeness.

-Rage at all humanity. Instead dissuade feelings with own good image and self-control to make humanity seem utterly worthless by comparison.

-Bitch behind others' backs, as makes one look petty.

-Plot unnecessarily during important missions, as own carelessness causing general fucking up of missions.

-Swear.

-Party like no-one's business. Makes Father angry. And is trying to save up for a personal TV.

-Make own decisions, as own initiative is shit.

-Let Lust date emotional fuckwits, spineless money-grabbers, foreign immigrants, ugly military personnel (which naturally includes all personnel), hobos, dopey love-sick dipshits, boy-band members, and anyone else one thinks is unworthy of Lust's cleavage, even if she is dating them under Father's orders.

-Kill any of the above if any manage to squirm into Lust's breasts in such a way that everyone will notice and Father will suspect self of crime, and thus endure a damn hell of a spanking and painful reproach from Lust.

-Contemplate Gluttony's imminent death, but console oneself with ideas of _how_the mindless glob will kick the bucket.

-Masturbate to compensate for lack of sexual partner. Instead, convince self needs no partner to achieve happiness. Think of Greed and his endless supply of whores. Is he happy? No. So there.

-Idly do nothing for days on end when have no mission. Pass time effectively with other none-potentially-destructive activities.

-Wail on how ugly true self is. Imagine other more uglier creatures to console self.

-Despair on general uselessness. Find ways to be more useful.

-Anger Father. Spanking will be thus avoided.

-Abandon will to live if none of above resolutions are met. Raise hope for next year.

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WILL:

-Impose dignity and poise on self to impress others and boost self-esteem.

-Keep alcohol intake at 21 units per week or less (preferably). Makes one look generally retarded and pitiful. Have seen Wrath drunk. Remember the horror when thinking of getting wasted.

-Refrain from random bouts of insanity and violence by fulfilling the above.

-Entertain self in times of inactivity with harmless activities of self-education and self-training to boost self-esteem and usefulness.

-Keep maiming to bare minimum.

-Boost self-control by doing all of the above.

-Convince self everything is fine and dandy. Shit happens, but happiness will come in some form or another.

-Eat sensibly to maintain good self-image.

-Flatter Father to keep in his good-book. Is unaware if old fart owns one, but is worth a shot.

-Kill any emotional fuckwits, spineless money-grabbers, foreign immigrants, ugly military personnel (which naturally includes all personnel), hobos, dopey love-sick dipshits, boy-band members, and anyone else one thinks is unworthy of Lust's cleavage.

-Kill any of the above in such a way that no one will notice and Father will not suspect self of crime, and thus avoid a damn hell of a spanking and painful reproach from Lust.

-Agree with everything Father and/or Pride says to maintain good self-image and preserve life.

-Hate in silence.

-Kill Greed one day, since is bane of own existence.

-Impress other's with self-control and calm disposition.

-Genuinely love self, and tell self so.

-Find ways to be useful. Examples: not fucking up missions, training self to succeed in missions and life in general, doing Father's laundry without bitching about it.

-Let other siblings (with sound minds) accompany self on missions, even ones hated by self, as self-decision-making is shit.

-Not swear, but instead do so under breath or to oneself.

-Not party. Must salvage life's savings (pocket money) and not anger Father.

-Maintain dignity and poise.

-Maintain good self-esteem.

-Fulfil as many above resolutions as is inhumanly possible. Preferably all.

-Prepare severe punishment for all humanity if fail to fulfil resolutions. Make it painful. Perhaps a mass genocide, or another Michael Bay movie. Then raise hope for next year.

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Review please! More funny to come :D


	2. A Shitty Start

Things eaten today (all in attempt to consume leftover Christmas morsels before Gluttony finds them):

_Ten glasses of chocolate Parfaits (Ohh, if I could die from over-indulgence on these babies...)_

_Whole bucket of Celebrations (Jesus, they were AMAZING.)_

_Leftovers of curry abandoned by Wrath, since his oldie taste buds can't handle a little heat. Wuss._

_½ pound of Christmas turkey (leftovers), including the helping of stuffing, potatoes, and all the cliché essentials._

_5 packets of Pringles._

_½ black pudding._

_Sugar cakes (one of the rare occasions Father actually bakes something edible AND amazing)._

_3 packets of mince pies (didn't like them—but then most of the stuff you buy at Christmas is consumed due to fact is 'Christmassy' to do so.)_

_Everything else not eaten by dysfunctional family. EVERYTHING._

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**_New Years Day, 8:30 pm._**_ Alcohol intake: 60 units: Terrible. Emotional state: Shit. Calories: over 9000...oh sweet Jesus..._

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_._

Ugh. The last thing feel physically, emotionally or mentally equipped to endure is another one of Greed's 'HOMG NEW YEAR' parties (and yes, Greed is still here, in the form of a retarded Asian guy better off as Gluttony). Not joking, it's like watching porn with a splitting headache. Everything and everyone just inspires the uncontrollable urge to rip the head off Flopsy Bunny and shove those damned blackberries up her furry ass. Not even going to elaborate on how am familiar with a fluffy children's book character in that way...Let's just say Father, when we were kids, used to improvise on kiddie stories he only half-knew, and the results were damn disturbing. Probably the answer to why we're all so fucked up. Ah well.

Ugh. Pigged out like an obese person with a death-wish today despite own New Year's resolutions. Can see where this is going better than Wrath ever could. It's like a train coming into the station. You can't see it, even standing on the tracks, but you know damn well it's coming and it'll steam-roller you if you don't damn haul ass away from it. Unfortunately, knowing self, not gonna haul ass any time soon. As good as pancake. Knowing this probably prompted the all-out binge-drinking today immediately after insane hogging of random Japanese buffet in Central. How bad can your state possibly be when the bartender himself hires a cab and then practically throws your paralytic form into it because he's too scared shitless to risk you waking up?

Ugh.

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**_3 a.m._**_ Alcohol intake: 200 units: Atrocious. Emotional state: Dead. Calories consumed: 0 (too physically and emotionally drained to eat, so nothing to rave about)._

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_._

Oh my God. Have just seen Hell, and scraped out alive. Barely. Now currently dying inside while slumped on the 100-year-old couch in bedroom in the middle of some soppy soap-opera (guilty pleasures come in strange and mind-numbing forms) that would have entertained if not for throbbing headache, feeling of intense violation and disgust, combined with an empty stomach that will soon eat self alive if nothing is consumed soon. Hunger is the result of intense stress for Homunculi too, apparently. Not the most comforting discovery ever, but takes mind off searing forehead and keeps back flashbacks of—Oh God, they're coming back...

.

Things hadn't started off well, even before I got to the damned party. Firstly, I was already wasted— a mental defence against the mindfuck that occurs at each and every one of these things when attending sober. Secondly, got lost in maze of tunnels. Damn Father and damn refurbishing! Constantly adding more and more utterly unnecessary amounts of tunnel length naturally in quest of self-aggrandisement makes it impossible for one used to old arrangement to make one's way to anywhere. Ended up having to kill a few guardian chimeras to mark my trail, like a _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ version of _Hansel and Gretel_. Okay, a _lot _of chimeras. A body-count that would put the whole Saw franchise to shame later, I turned up. What greeted me was the voice I least wanted to hear.

_'Envy! There're prawn toastiiiies!'_ Gluttony squeals, gesturing wildly to the mountain of battered bug-like pink fish piled on the party table not too far away.

Headache suddenly shifts into overdrive.

_I need to get out of here_, I thought, as I turned to leave, repulsed.

Before I can make a step, Father grabs me by the shoulders and steers me straight into the raving hell before me.

'Envy! We thought you had finally committed suicide like we're all betting you will someday!' he trills, clearly out of his head on some hippie drug or another designed to send even the most stone-faced old prunes into raging hormonal fuckwits. 'I had Pride poised to scour the entire length and breadth of the tunnels for your pale and bloodless corpse beside the message "_I hate you all, go die!_" written in your own blood!' he continues cheerfully, ignoring my expression of utter disgust and indignation.

Wow, I feel loved.

In desperation to save my sanity, I focused on what Father was propelling me towards, past Gluttony throwing himself at anything that looked soft and shiny in the dim party lights, leading to him almost devouring the breasts of Greed's whores (thinking they were meat buns), and would have if Greed hadn't kicked him across the room and crashing into the dreaded wine-fountain Wrath was currently swimming in. The crazy bastard had dived in off a gigantic comatose Sloth, completely out of it on the drug-fumes polluting the air.

I see, to my horror, that I am being nigh-shoved towards my ever-appealing sister Lust.

Oh God.

In the last few months, Father has had this sick, twisted idea that Lust and I, being the only attractive-enough-to-shag ones among our siblings, are destined for one another and should marry and spawn ultra adorable offspring to grace his love-sick soul. As if _that_ would happen!

Now whenever he approaches me and bestows orders, Father always manages to slip in the topic no matter what he might have been saying beforehand, be it mass murder or a simple errand to Wallmart.

_"Envy, would you be interested in accompanying Lust on the mission instead of all alone and lonesome?"_ he drawls in the most fatherly manner possible for a centuries-old fartbag intent on world domination, and tries to guilt-trip me into it when I refuse._ "Oh, come now! Lust is all by herself and she needs company! She's so alone!" _he almost wails, eyes brimming with tears that made me want to retch. "_All she wants is LOVE! *sob**sob*"._

I don't know why he doesn't just come out with it and say: "_Envy, please do shag Lust over the red martinis. She's sexyyyy!_"

Death to all old people over 100. Seriously.

So, there she is, in all her alluring, potentially-fatal attractiveness, lounging by the built-in bar in the corner. God, hanging around looking lustful at a bar with a name like Lust is like being called 'Chastity' and refusing to so much as clap eyes on a man for fear of being violated.

Father practically shoves me into her line of sight, and skips away before I can make an excuse to get away.

Shit.

Lust looks at me in mild curiosity.

'Hello, Envy. What brings you here on this..._lovely_ evening?' she asks, arching one eyebrow like one does when asking "Why are you knee-deep in your own shit?".

I stare. I don't have time for this.

'Seriously, Lust, cut the crap. I'm drunk, I'm pissed, and I've got the mother of all headaches. I just want to have a little chit-chat, shut Father up, and get the living hell out of here.'

She smirks.

'Father wants us to engage in incestuous sexual liaisons again, doesn't he?'

Bang. Right on the mark. Then again, it is painfully obvious—what, with Father staring psychopathically in our direction, leaning painfully over the red martinis like someone who's thrown his back out in an attempt to eavesdrop, and Pride hovering in every dark inch of the room...which was practically everywhere, watching our every move.

God, it's like the Inquisition again.

'Yeah,' I sigh, revolted. 'Don't ask how, or why. He just does. Say something. Reject me, impale me, I don't care—just do something that will end any attempt at flirting so I can leave.'

'Fine,' Lust says, rolling her eyes. 'Get out of my face, you hippie freak.'

'You BITCH!' I roar, despite raging hangover.

'What? You told me to say something, so I did,' Lust retorts, offended.

I storm off without replying. Jeez, that was uncalled for! Slut...

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But Father and Pride would not leave it at that. For the rest of the evening—eight hours to be exact— they kept continually throwing me in Lust's direction, sending me round with cocktail weenies and shrimps, forcing me to offer them to her, until she eventually shish-kebab'd me out of sheer irritation, hopeless yearning in their eyes, until, near the end of the party and near enraged with frustration, piledrove me into Lust's squishy cleavage, roaring "GET IN THERE, DAMNIT!"

_Squish._

Ended the evening absolutely stoned with alcohol, near-murderous and practically leaping through the exit like one escaping a fatal explosion when Father finally announced the heavenly words that the hell had ended, we can all hit the hay. THANK YOU GOD. YOU FINALLY ANSWERED MY PRAYERS! KINDA LATE, BUT WHO EVER ACCUSED YOU OF PUNCTUALITY? NOT THE SUFFERING SODS OF THE WORLD, CLEARLY!

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**4 a.m.** Ugh...Need drink...Might have a cupboard-full now to induce catatonic state and rid self of hateful memories...

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**6. a.m. **STILL...CAN'T...BLASTED...SLEEP! WHY? WHY?

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**8. a.m.** Oh sod sod SOD IT ALL! Am going for a walk. May murder to let off steam. Might drink more. Don't care. Hate self. Hate everyone. Especially Father...and George Lucas for his shitty movies.

Ugh.


	3. FUCKWITTAGE!

**January 2****nd****, 10 p.m., My Room**_**. **__Alcohol intake: 500 units: Why? Emotional state: Still shit. Calories: STILL OVER 9000…New Years Resolutions going down the toilet…_

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_._

Oh, why am I so unattractive? Why? Why? Why did Father have to be a bitch and make me a tiny green turd with eyeballs? A fact that Greed never tires of reminding me? And _I Can't Believe It's Not Butter_…HOW THE HELL IS IT NOT BUTTER? HOW? WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED IN THE 200 YEARS I WAS GROUNDED? _WHAT?_

Crap, Father calls. Please let it be a mission to kill. Please. Killing is good therapy. Messy, and hell to wash hair afterwards, but good.

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**10.30 p.m.**

_._

IT'S NOT FUCKING KILLING! IT'S FUCKING OBSERVATION! NOOOOO! WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY? T_T

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**1p.m. **_Alcohol intake: 15 units: OMG IT'S A MIRICLE! Emotional state: Surprisingly good. Calories: 1000: Oooh, yessss!_

_._

Woo, pretty good day today. Got to kill some boy singer girls everywhere were raving and shitting themselves about…what was his name…Jason…Justin…Beiber? Yeah, that's him. Little shit with the girly voice. Not happy with knowledge I've apparently made the world a better place—what with all the people thanking God Almighty and all his heavenly angels about it on the internet forums and partying in the streets. Damn. Oh well. Managed to go whole day without unnecessary excess, despite not being able to get fat. Have therefore managed to not look emotionally screwed for an entire day. I'm not a lost cause! HOORAY!

_Things are looking UP!_

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**4 p.m.**

Heh. I own ass. Officially. Greed tried to pull one over me in one of the main pipes after returning from mission having royally fucked up. It wasn't even my fault. The _Vogue_ advert with the sexy woman in panties and licking a strawberry so suggestively even her dad would have to take sex-addict classes distracted me! Unfortunately, honest excuse didn't wash.

"Hey," Greed drawls, in a voice that sends women migrating from thousands of miles away just to shag his horny ass. "Heard you screwed up."

I mentally repeat my calming mantra:

__

__

_..._

"Yeah," I say, fighting the raging ego screaming in horror and outrage. "So what? You got your ass handed to you plenty of times too."

Greed's grin fades. SUCCESS!

"Oh yeah? I didn't get beat by a cheerleader with pom-poms assisted by a hobo wielding a bashed-up Heinz Beanz can!"

Got me there, but would rather shave head than admit it. I grin sweetly.

"Oh Greed," I trill, walking around him, "You say the darndest things!"

He gapes.

"You high?"

"Not yet! Soon though."

"You're…you're useless!"

"Yeah, but not for long!" I call back, walking steadily away from him.

The greedy man-whore stares, dumbfounded by inner poise and utter disregard for the insults he's trying to fling at me.

"You're…you're INSANE!"

I look back and give him a pitying look, grinning all over my face.

"Greed, go waste your fuckwittage someplace else."

"Bu—!"

"FUCKWITTAGE!" I shout, running off laughing my ass off. Oh my God this is the best day EVER!

I owned my most irritating New Years Resolutions, verbally owned Greed's ass, and now well on the way to owning everything else! TAKE THAT FLORA! YOUR CONFUSING BUTTER FUCKWITTAGE CANNOT HARM ME NOW, FOR I AM INVINCIBLE!

Am cackling evilly at the expense of inner poise, but don't care. Is happy, even if Father is standing right behind me and glaring and oh shit…

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**4.05 p.m.**

…Shit.

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Please review!


	4. Depression and Mel Gibson

**3: DEPRESSION AND MEL GIBSON.**

**January ****3rd, ****10****p.m.,****My ****Room: **_Alcohol __intake: __1000 __units: __How __the __hell __am __still __conscious? __Emotional __state: __Dejected. __Calories: __0 __(although __Father__'__s __suspended __all __food, __so __still __nothing __to __rave __and __raise __the __neighbours __about__…__)_

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Ow. Father not happy. Not happy bunny at all. Heard about the fucked up mission. Was spanked—hard, and for about three hours, switching with Pride when his arms got tired. Went like this: beat me till his arms hurt so much that he had to beat me for making his arms hurt so much after getting someone else to beat me. Happy days!...Not.

Oww, my aching ass…If sex is like this I want nothing to do with it…

Trying to induce catatonic state of drunkenness in attempt to numb pain in abused ass…Not working…Still conscious, staring dejectedly at the ever-growing pile of vodka bottles like it proclaims my shit life—which it does—like the alcoholics in the movies before having a miracle revelation of the '_beauty__of__life_' and all the wonderful things they have at the last second and all that shit…

No miracle revelation for me, apparently. Thanks, Hollywood. Thanks a bunch.

_Sigh_. All alone. Miserable, drunk, and alone. God, may as well hang out with Mel Gibson.

…

Wait, Mel Gibson's married, isn't he?

Right—when am sober enough to hold a pen without scrawling some caveman shit I won't even remember writing let alone understand when able, he goes on my list of Victims to Brutally Murder…along with the rest of humanity.

Ew. Just puked. So hungry…

Puke suddenly looks appetising...Hmm…

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**12 p.m. Central Café. **

Phew, fresh air. Observing townspeople for Mel Gibson with intent to kill. Lifts spirits somewhat. Heh. Spirits. Homunculi don't have those—metaphorically—but I have plenty of literal spirits. Namely vodka. Heh. Am funny. Eating chocolate parfait…Ooooh so beautiful…The chocolate Holy Grail…

Am now worried about disturbing attraction to favourite dessert. Will perhaps seek therapy…

_After_ I finish.

…AND NOT IN THAT WAY!

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**2 p.m. Back underground. This place is _so_ not Hell. Totally.**

Ugh. Just received next mission by way of Pride scratching it into the wall like a psycho from a horror movie.

_CHECK UP ON SLOTH. WAKE IF NECCESARY._

The last part goes without saying. It's ALWAYS necessary! At least, in my case. Sloth must somehow make the impossible effort of deciding that I'm the best one to piss off by falling asleep the minute I turn up. Hell knows why. Must be inhumanely boring, digging a tunnel for hundreds of years without knowing the purpose of the damn thing. Just knowing it's essential. Must feel like being a member of the Clangers. Wish he talked like them too. That monotonous, groaning drone is the most irritating thing known to man besides humans and Christmas shopping.

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Turned up, and, lo and friggin behold, Sloth is snoring on his ugly ass, lying on his face in the middle…or somewhere abouts…in the giant transmutation tunnel with no name.

Pissed, I give him an almighty kick up the backside. Breaks my leg.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?" I scream, clutching leg in agony. "WHY CAN'T YOU JUST MOVE YOUR ASS SO EVERYONE'S HAPPY! I'M HAPPY SINCE I DON'T GET A LIMB BROKEN TRYING TO BUST YOU UP, YOU'RE HAPPY BECAUSE YOU DON'T GET YOUR ASS BEAT, AND FATHER'S HAPPY BECAUSE HE'S TIRED OF RUINING THE PRECIOUS PAINTINGS HE DOES DURING MY BEATING YOUR ASS IN MY UGLY TUMOR FORM, WHICH CAUSES _FREAKIN__' __EARTHQUAKES_ DONTCHA KNOW, JERKS HIS HAND, RUINS OLD-MAN PAINTING, AND MAKES HIM PISSED, AND I GET SPANKED LIKE A FIVE YEAR OLD! AAAAARRGGHH!"

I stop, panting, getting ready to rip the clod limb from limb.

"…_It__'__s__…__just__…__nice__…__to__…__hear__…__another__…__voice__…__once__…__in__…__a__…__while__…_" Sloth groans slowly, grinning all over his ugly mug.

Oh _GOD_.

All will to beat up the mindless tunnel-digging-…thing, just-POOF!-went. Aww, man! Why? Why did he have to say that and make me feel guilty? Why?

Trying to process the fact that Sloth actually wanted my company—not something I've seen since like…ever—as well as the fact that I actually feel something so simple yet utterly infuriating and indescribable feeling as GUILT, I peer up at him, wearing a face no one knows I'm capable of.

That's '_calm_', by the way. And not '_calm_' as in '_calmly __plotting_' or '_calmly __murderous_', which are the only 'in-betweens' of my extreme emotional range.

CALM, and in _CALM!_

Now I know the feelings of the guy who said '_Who __are __you __and __what__'__s __wrong __with __your __hair?_' shortly before I stabbed him to death with a cactus.

"Hey, big guy,' I say, calmly, NICELY. "Wanna talk more?"

"_No__…__talking__…__is__…__too__…__much__…__effort__…_" he grumbles, plodding on and resuming his eternal dig.

I stare after him. I just when OOC for nothing. Wow. How much of a EdwardElric do I feel now?

Very much. I contemplated killing him right there and then, but then something stopped me. The small voice in my head called Bill squeaked something like 'No, don't kill him'…and I listened to it.

…For some reason.

That reason I'm still trying to contemplate, hours later, staring at the ceiling of my room.

Aaaah, so tired…Can't think straight…Maybe inspiration will hit tomorrow…preferably not in the form of Father's wrinkly Man-Hand.

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**3 a.m. **

Just realised something.

I FORGOT TO KILL MEL FUCKING GIBSON! _NOOOOOOOOOOOO!_

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Review please!


	5. More Depression and Pervy Pride

**5: More Depression and Pervy Pride**

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**January 22nd, 10p.m., My Room: **_Alcohol intake: 17, WOOT! Emotional state: Hopeful. Calories: 1400, IMMA RAVIIIN'!_

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_._

Well. Haven't updated in a while. Too little noteworthy stuff goin' down (as they say). A few random murders, a few planned murders, a few ordered murders...The usual gig. Been feeling uplifted due to good control of alcohol and calorie intake, as well as having met almost all of New Year's Resolutions so far, aside from the one about killing Greed, accidently making Father find out about murders of emotional fuckwits/boy-band members like Justin Beiber (AKA: Jizz Balls)/smelly foreigners etc. who lust after Lust (lol). Just started intense _Personal Regime of Achieving Epicness Hooray, _or PRAEH, pronounced 'PRAY', (WTF, I'm atheist damnit!) for short.

Oh my god, I just realised. The word LUST rearranged spells SLUT! HA! I KNEW IT WAS TRUE!

Ahem. Should've laid off the crack. Must take anti-depressesants to balance mood.

Not responding to Greed's emotional fuckwittage anymore. The rewards make the agony I go through doing it so worthwhile. It's driving him friggin' nuts! He's having withdrawal symptoms! He's rocking himself in the corner of Father's room mumbling and cuddling a wad of cash for comfort like a baby! Every time I walk by he starts whimpering and counting the notes like Death the Kid on drugs. I've never seen something so pathetic yet hilariously miserable at the same time. OH MY GOD I LOVE MY LIFE SO MUCH RIGHT NOW!

...

Huh. No shit happened. Usually shit happens whenever I have a good moment. HA! TAKE THAT UNIVERSE! TAKE IT LONG AND HARD! YOU DON'T HAVE NOTHIN' ON ME! YOU HEAR? _NOOOOTHIIIIIIIIIIIING!_

I think I might be veering from disgustingly smug to dangerously insane. Ah well, whatever makes ya happy, as they say!

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**4p.m. **

Sigh. Knew taking those anti-depressant pills would be a bad idea. Didn't listen to Bill, the tiny voice inside my head. I instead listened to Biff, the psychopathic hobo who shouts a lot and pours gin on my brain. I blame him for my alcohol addiction, but he always denies it, the bastard. Now angsting furiously in my room for no other reason other than to wallow in own angst. I'm so not self-destructive (sarcasm).

Oh GOD why am I so goddamn fucking ugly? Why? Why couldn't I be born sexy like Lust or Greed..._oh_ _God new thought, new thought, new thought..._but seriously! Why an ugly green turd with eyeballs? Why not a...I dunno...a puppy or a...a...shoe from Clarks? ANYTHING! Anything is better than the shit I was made out of! Oh no...please don't tell me I was created from actual Father Shite...

That mental image will remain seared into my brain 'till I die...

At any rate, I always knew I was ugly. Thanks loads to everybody else who reminded me of it. I know I still am, thanks very fucking much. As if I don't look in the mirror, see my face, and see the disgusting green worm that is my true form right behind it, staring at me as if to say, "Why me?". Hell should I know. I could ask Father, but then I prefer to keep my internal organs safely inside my body. Why are all humans gifted to be born pretty and not me? Why do I have to be the only one who turns out to be a creature so vile even his own Father threw up over in disgust? All humans are born in the form of humans, so why couldn't I be born in the form of homunculi—a human in shape? Why something so utterly different? So different, in fact, that Pride questioned whether Father had had an affair with Morph? WHAT THE HELL, MAN, WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL?

I suck like hell at any kind of meaningful battle. I get my ass royally kicked and roasted every time. And despite looking like any normal healthy teenager, I weigh more than Michelle McManus! WTF? My body defies all logic apparently! So no matter how much I eat, I'm still technically a fatty weighing **OVER NINE THOUSAND!** (_I seriously need to stop watching Dragonball Z..._) So New Years' Resolution about watching calories is pointless—especially since I'm an emotionally screwed nut whether I pig out or not...

_WHY CAN'T I EVER WIN? WHYYYYYYYY? T_T_

Everyone hates me. Even Lust. 'Specially after that damned New Year's Party. She hasn't even wasted a glance. I may's well be one of those emotional fuckwits she dates. I suppose I'm the exact definition of an emotional fuckwit. It hurts. It really does. I don't know why, it just does. That's part of the reason why everything's so painful—I don't know _why_ it's so painful. And a part of me knows, deep down, that if I ever tried to figure out why, it would destroy every ounce of sanity in me.

Sigh...Gonna leave it here till I sound less like a song from Evanescence...

But I can't promise I'll sound like McFly any time soon...

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**11 p.m.**

Phew. After knocked self out through excessive drinking and spent the evening nursing raging hangover, fell substantially better. Let off steam by watching University Challenge and swearing and ranting at every one of the damn stuck-up bastards. They piss me off—all British and posh and smart...Well, I know their names now and can hunt them all down and show them the REAL definition of PAIN like never defined in the dictionary before!

...God, I really do have problems, don't I?

Note to self: iseek therapist who will ask no questions whatsoever. The Swiss ones will do, since the Swiss never ask questions. Preferably a woman. A hot woman. Like the ones in _Nuts_ magazine!

Yeah...!

On a separate note, one really knows one has issues when, during the birth of new sibling several hundred years back, they hover somewhere in the background muttering under their breath: _'Please be a freak, please be a freak!...'_

I did exactly that...but instead got Gluttony. _Whoop-dee-fuckin'-doo_. He may a freak _mentally_...but physically, he's kinda cute—according to all the fanart I see when surfing the 'net. Heck, that Deviant Art website is crawling with fat adorable Gluttony chibis...

Damnit. I am forever to be known as a hot teen who transforms into some...wait... "TUMOR-DOG-THING"? WHAT THE HELL? WHY CALL IT THAT? AS IF MY SELF-ESTEEM WAS ALREADY ROCK-BOTTOM, THEY HAVE TO GO AND DO THAT!

Damn...getting depressed again...

Huh. _Bring Me To Life_ by Evan-_fucking_-escence is playing on MTV. Oh, the irony.

Must...flick...channels...to block out...emo song! Oh _God_, anything but that shit...Oooh, now it's porn!

'_Envy_,' whispers Pride from nowhere (literally) and with no respect for what the old fogies call "privacy", '_Father calls_,'

'_SHHHHHH!_' I hiss, pressing my face against the glaring screen like I wanted the massive boobies to imprint themselves on it. '_I'm trying to hear the nuuuudityyyy!_'

'_Oooh, can I watch too~?_' the sweet kiddie voice of Pride asks gleefully. I'm shocked out of my perversion to turn and stare at the ceiling for no apparent reason. He's usually there, so...

'...R-_really_?'

'FUCK YEAH!' Pride suddenly roars. 'WOMANLY BODIES APPEAL TO ME!'

_Did Greed actually manage to drug the eye-obsessed nut without getting dismembered?_, I wonder. Whatever happened, this is the single most disturbing thing I've ever heard. My ears are screaming in violation!

'Pride, you're scaring me.'

Several of Pride's eyes and multiple psychotic grins shoot under my door and over the TV, gazing at it like a dog stares at a postman's arse before it attacks.

'_Oooo_,' he giggles, heedless of the fact I'm shitting myself. '_Purty boobies..._'

**WHAT IN THE NAME OF SATAN IS GOING ON?**

'Uuuh...P-Pride...?'

'HEY, LET'S MASTURBATE TOGETHER!'

'_OH MY GOD NOOOOOOOOOOOO!_'

I'M GETTING THE FUCK OUTTA HERE! FATHERRRRR! SAVE MEEEEEEEEEEE!

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_Envy scribbled his last sentence and bolted out of the room before anyone could have said 'LOL', absolutely shitting himself and terrified, screaming for Father to save him from the loony disembodied voice who wanted to masturbate with him._

_Still inside the room, Pride snickered evilly, and switched the TV, and its morally ambiguous content, off._

_'Heh,' he grinned. 'That was too easy.'_

_There was a long silence, as Envy's footsteps and cries died away._

_'...'_

_'...I wonder if Spongebob is on?'_

_._

_._

_._

Review please!


	6. Denial and The Radio

**So, so sorry for leaving it so long before updating! :( With everything going on I completely forgot about Envy's Diary! I promise I'll update far more regularly! -Frosty**

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><p>Chapter 5: Denial and The Radio<p>

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**February 1st, 10 p.m., My Room.** _Alcohol intake: too shameful to mention. Emotional state: Incredulous and questioning…fuck this sounds like a Facebook status update. Calories: 200. Good._

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Right, finally. Jesus, it's been a while—heck, we're already into February and this is the first damn entry I've been able to put down since January. Wanna know why? Because "there's a recession on", the Old Fart says. Therefore we can't afford to buy paper for me to write on. That's basically what this diary is—a wad of paper, since Father has an irrational hatred for anything book-shaped. I don't know myself the reasoning behind this, but to be honest I think he's going off the deep end like Greed always said he would.

Recession my ass. The humans are managing alright, so why the hell can't we? The only time things would get bad for us is if the humans couldn't afford to buy shit at the 'Pound Store'. THEN we'd be in deep shit.

Come to think of it, all this bullshit about a recession is just Father covering up for the fact that he's spent truckloads on anti-aging cream and other medical crap that doesn't work.

God, and they say I'M the desperate one. I'm like Chuck Norris compared to Father, shit. I still don't know who the guy is, but apparently he's the most epic thing next to Jesus Christ…at least that's what the internet definition told me.

So…what's been happening in the weeks I haven't wrote jack squat? Well…Father's obsession with defunct facial products, for a start (which I have just discovered are FEMALE facial products…Oh God…), hm…Pride is seeking therapy for his unhealthy attachment to Spongebob (the character, not just the show)…Sloth still digging and moaning about it all the way, thankfully so far beneath the earth you can't hear him…Greed is shagging a whore, as per requirements of his existence…Wrath is struggling to resist his old-man urges to watch stale TV specials and lounge in the living-room in slippers and a rocking-chair…Lust is being…well…lustful, for want of better word…Gluttony…well, do I really need to say it? The world and his mother-in-law knows _his_daily routine by now…and finally, I'm trying to keep up with my New Years resolutions.

It could be going better. Managed to keep calories to a bare minimum. Still weigh more than the collective weight of all the krill in the world put together, which is are 500 million tonnes…more than the combined mass of all the stupid humans in the world! Oh my God, I'm disgusting!

Moving on, I've started a training programme to boost my skills (which are shit at present, I'll be honest), and so far I've only managed about five minutes of cock-trusts before giving up and shoving a Mega Large McDonalds meal down my throat—WITH FRIES, MILKSHAKE, AND EXTRA GODDAMN CRISPY NUGGETS, THE STUFF WHICH IS SO BUTT-NUMBINGLY UNHEALTHY YOU WOULDN'T FEED IT TO YOUR DOG! FACT!

Sigh. Ah well—it's consolation that I can't possibly get any damn heavier…

Shit, Father calls. Probably to get me to drag my white ass down to the store to get some more shit cream that only makes him look older (if that was possible).

Denial's a bitch.

**4 p.m**

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Fucking queues. Fucking bitchy staff bitching about everybody and faffing around with shit for five hours before actually noticing you're about to bring a carton of milk on their stupid heads. Fucking Father and his fucking cosmetic obsession…

…Pride is looking over my shoulder.

…

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU 

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**8pm**

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God, my ass...The corpses of my dead sperm cells have felt that…

AND I HAVE NOT BEEN VIOLENTLY TENTACLE-RAPED, I SHOULD ADD! AND IT DID NOT GO ON FOR FOUR HOURS STRAIGHT!

…

I think…

…

OMG, revelation had just randomly hit me like Lust's cleavage last HOMG NEW YEAR party…For some reason, violent punishments induce the most retarded thoughts.

…I'll make a radio show! Fuck yeah! H-FM it will be called! I will naturally be the host, and preside over all the slots and subjects everyone else will have.

For Me: 'DIETING AND WHY IT SUCKS ANUS', along with 'DRASTIC MEASURES OF LOOKING DAMN SEXY'.

Lust: 'Discussion session: Is Being a Bitch Slut Always Wrong?'

Gluttony: 'Sounds of Fat Lug Eating'.

Pride: 'Singing: "Lonely" by Akon

Wrath: 'Ranting Like Fuck For 3 Hours. STRAIGHT.'

Greed: Singing 'Womaniser' and playing random shit for callers with no lives.

Sloth: Nothing. A big fat dollop of NOTHING.

Father: 'Old and In Denial'.

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…Haaa, I'm so damn smart I should be hailed EPIC BEAST OF THE CENTURY!

No contest, people.

Can't wait to get started—now I've just gotta round everybody up…and make up some damn good bribes…

Later!


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